


Gray Star

by peachfloat



Category: TWRP | Tupper Ware Remix Party (Band)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 15:39:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16746778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachfloat/pseuds/peachfloat
Summary: Meouch takes a trip down memory lane.





	Gray Star

The house was quiet. Unnaturally quiet. In all his years of living here, it had never been this silent. There was always noise, people going in and out, tv tuned to some trashy “reality” channel, neighbors fighting and then fucking in what must have been some kind of makeup hate sex, their dogs barking the whole time. The only times it wasn’t fucking annoying, it was anxiety inducing. He always played music to drown out the noise. Loud, fast, and angry was all he listened to, was the only thing that he felt really understood him, what he was going through. 

With his first job, a shitty weekend job so he could still “attend school”, not that he ever did. He had only one thing in mind that he really wanted: a bass guitar. His mother had him take piano lessons as a child, and while he was exceptionally good at it due to his “defect” as it was rudely called, it bored him. 

By the time summer came along, he'd finally saved up enough money to thrift himself a bass and an amp. A beat up old girl, chipped gray body with a white star painted on it. The headstock had been broken off and replaced with a different one at some point, and when he plugged her in, she sounded dirty. Just how he liked them.

Day after day, he practiced. Sometimes to practice, sometimes to drown out the sounds of the neighbors fucking again, sometimes because he was bored. He played and played until his fingers bled, he tried to play with his paw pads, stronger and better protected, but they were too large for him to fret properly, so he gave up on that. 

He caught himself spacing out, getting too nostalgic, could nearly feel the rusted strings digging into his finger pads again. He ran his fingers down the wall, attempting to wipe the feeling off, old paint peeling beneath his touch, chips falling to the floor. 

“You alright?”

“I- Yeah. Yeah I'm just, remembering things, is all. Where's the stuff?”

He couldn’t wait to get back home, his real home. With the ship on auto-pilot, he began opening boxes.

Junk, mostly. Old clothes that had been eaten by moths, cables to things that went obsolete decades ago, all caked in a layer of dust so thick, he could claw through it. Old vinyls his mom said she’d burned when he left home, he always knew she was a liar. Either way, he’d accepted them as a lost cause and replaced them anyways.

One scrapbook, only half filled with photos. Pictures of him as a baby, a child wearing dresses and bows. Mommy’s little princess, at least until he became a teenager. Began growing his hair out, a little mohawk sprouting on the top of his head. It made him proud, gave him such a confidence boost. It was the beginning of his so-called teenage rebellion.

Finally, he found the picture he’d been looking for.

A picture of himself as a cub, 6 months old, cradled in his mother’s arms. Next to her stood his father, well groomed and wearing a tie. They never told him what the occasion was. He hated this photo for a number of reasons; the dress they made him wear, how much he looked like his mother, his estranged father. How they looked almost functional. It was the only photo of him they’d taken before he left, the only picture they had of the whole family together.

It was odd. Bittersweet. How much he hated everything about this photo, and yet it was the only thing he trudged across the universe for, through boxes of shit memories for. All that for a photo of an event he didn’t even remember, didn’t want to remember. 

He kissed the glass of the frame, sputtering and snorting as he accidentally inhaled the dust caking it.

**Author's Note:**

> Half the fun is figuring out which events are inspired by real life.


End file.
